Alfred's Story
by squibalicious
Summary: An origin story to maybe explain why a man would dedicate his life to the care and protection of another man's son. No one doubts there is more to Alfred than what appears. This is my vision of how he became the butler to Batman.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The soft, metallic glow of the transporter dissolved around Diana's form. The ambient glow of the Bat Cave's computer terminals, the only light her eye's have to adjust to in order to discern that she was in fact, alone.

Her prior arrivals had always been greeted with the warm welcome of Bruce or his most attentive attendant, Alfred. This time, her and Bruce's fifth "official" date, was most definitely lacking, in comparison. Diana quickly perused the platform...

The normally pristine area of the computer terminal was a disorder of disposable coffee cups and takeout containers.

It was only this morning that Bruce, rather Batman, had covertly slipped her a note during the League's weekly Founder's meeting, inviting (but truly in Batman's case, informing her) that she was expected at Wayne Manor at 7:00PM that evening for dinner.

Their first date had been a lovely dinner at the Manor. The request being presented as a delicate, hand-written calligraphic invitation sent to the Themyscarian Embassy, signed personally by Bruce Wayne. This was of course a part of a well-planned and orchestrated semi-public scheme to introduce to the public to the courtship of Bruce Wayne and Diana, Ambassador of the sovereign land of Themyscara. Subsequent "dates" were done to more public exposure. Two in New York at fashionable restaurants with goads of paparatzzi. The most recent in Gotham, at a glittering fund raising gala for a charity championed by Diana for the benefit of women working to bring themselves and their children out of poverty. Although this was not the most "traditional' means of courtship, carefully manipulated, media catching events, it was the most expedient way to introduce the the concept of a reformed, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. What other woman on planet Earth could amend Bruce Wayne from his roguish ways than the ideal embodiment a female empowerment?

Diana covertly unfolded Bruce's note, _"7 pm this evening..."_ was written, not in the elegant hand of the first invitation but in Bruce's own impatient scrawl. Wrinkling her nose at the odor of stale food she made her way to the passage way that led to Wayne Manor.

* * *

Exiting the Bat Cave's entrance by the moveable ancient grandfather clock, Diana found the Manor's library was in no better state than the cave. Tossed over a leather chair was a wrinkled dress shirt and pair of leather-patent shoes sat on the rosewood coffee table.

Before Diana could form an inquiry in her mind as to what calamity could have befallen the majesty of Wayne Manor she was alerted to danger by the smell of... _burning...fowl?_ And the distinct exclamation of a male voice.

"Damn!"

Following the mutual acrid odor and oration, she found her destination.

Wayne Manor's kitchen. In its decades long history, this bastion of culinary gentility had never had been the victim to such a violation.

There, hovered a billow of smoke, rising from a slowly dissipating flame. Its prior exuberance evident by the near ceiling high scorch marks rising from what was once a very dignified six burner stove. The culprit of this malfeasance, a man, who could handily disarm a dozen or more criminals without so much as breaking a sweat...but a roasted duck and accompanying side dishes apparently...

The perpetrator of culinary massacre turned to her, a concerned and befallen look upon his handsome face.

"You're early." His voice a foreign mixture of disappoint and … anxiousness.

Glancing at the wall-clock over his shoulder, which read 7:05 PM, Diana replied, "Actually, I'm late."

Bruce looked at his watch, then at Diana and then at the wall-clock. "Yes, well, I had thought..." His reply faded to a mumble as he he attempted in vain to wipe at the carbon scorches on the countertop in front of him and helplessly shift the roasting pan now smoldering on the trivet.

Diana slowly walked around the kitchen island to where Bruce was now in the process disgarding of the remnants of his hopefully last attempt at the culinary arts.

"Bruce, not that I don't appreciate this obvious...valiant effort but when will Alfred be back?"

"He left two nights ago... so tomorrow."

Diane recalled that two weeks prior, during a stakeout of a international arms dealer network, which Batman and Robin had been asked to assist with, Robin unceremoniously asked asked if he should pick up a few more takeout menus, in anticipation of Alfred's absence. Robin continued, unheeded by his foster-father's warnings over the open comms, that he would not be reduced to eating Taco Bell takeout and Ramen noodles until Alfred's return.

"He takes his vacation each year at the same time?"

"Every year since I can remember."

"And what does he do?"

"No idea." Bruce replied non-chalantly.

Diana was taken aback by this response and delved further.

"So you've never asked him?"

"No."

"You've never been curious about what he is doing?"

"No."

"And you've never tried to find out? Not once?" With this question Bruce finally lifted his eyes to meet Diana's as he replied, "Never."

Diana watched Bruce for a several long seconds before a tiny smile turns her lips.

"He's very special to you, isn't he?" she asked while placing her hand upon his.

Bruce narrowed his eyes in a near impression of the Bat then softened realizing her unspoken observation.

"What do you mean?"

"It's just," Diana's smile grew wider as she finally began to select some fruit from the breakfast platter, "I never imagine the 'great detective' would allow someone so close to him keep a secret for this long."

Bruce's face set in a manner wholly unlike any mask he wore as Batman or Bruce Wayne. A finite movement to his lips hovered, as if he was without a answer to her question.

It was at the moment that Bruce's private cell rang. He fumbled for it, again so uncharacteristically for a man that has a persona for any and all situations.

Diana was familiar with the ringtone. This was not the latest Wayne Industries smartphone used by Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy nor was it the encrypted communication device of the Bat Clan, rather a simple analog flip-phone. He answered it once when on one of their "dates" in New York. Tim, his foster-son and the present encarnation of Robin had called to let him know that he was staying past curfew to see a fellow _female_ study-buddy home from a group study session for a History exam scheduled the following day. Bruce had gently but sternly given a 30 minute reprieve to the curfew, assuring that his ward would be home to the Manor and get enough rest before his exam and avoid any _extra-curricular_ activities. This was, as best described, the _family_ phone.

"Hello."

"Is this Mr. Wayne, Mr. Bruce Wayne?"

"Who is this."

"Please, I'm sorry but I must speak with Bruce Wayne. This is Celia Tarret."

"How did you get this number?'

"Mr. Wayne? Mr. Wayne...I'm..I'm a friend of Alfred Pennyworth. He told me to call you in case-"

Diana could see a dark shadow cross Bruce's face. Her meta-Human hearing allowing her to easvesdrop upon the communication she stepped closer to Bruce seeing as he griped the countertop for support. With his next words, it was not the voice of Playboy Bruce Wayne nor the Batman. Rather his voice was strained and if she had only heard it before to compare it to, fearful, like that a child lost in the woods.

"Has something happened?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry, there's been an accident."


	2. Chapter 2

It would have been quicker to have the Watchtower transport them to England. Bruce's reasoning that it would be too conspicuous for Bruce Wayne to suddenly appear at the entrance of North London hospital. The only option was the Wayne Industies jet which was at permanent stand by. As she boarded with Bruce, less than one hour after the brief call from a woman named Celia Tarret, Diana realized this jet, with the Wayne logo had a similar designed to the League's Javelins. No doubt the trip would take only a few hours, a few precious hours.

Heart attack. This was Celia Tarret's reason for calling Bruce on the private, family number. Alfred was stable, having been taken to the nearest hosiptal immediately after he collapsed in the lobby of a London hotel. Bruce concluded the call with this unknown woman after securing assurances that Alfred's doctors were to contact him immediately should there be any change in his condition and that he would be there by morning.

So it was that at 5 AM GMT the overnight staff of St Thomas' Hospital witnessed the entrance of the infamous Bruce Wayne and if that were not enough of a shock, Wonder Woman, who despite not being attired in her signature uniform could in no way be mistaken for any other.

The front desk attendant did a double take at the entering couple to his copy of the Daily Mirror with photos of Bruce Wayne and Wonder Woman and the headline, "The Princess and the Rogue!"

The attendant unsuccessfully shifted the rag under some files before the imposing couple stepped to the counter.

"I want Alfred Pennyworth's room number and inform his doctor the Bruce Wayne will meet me there immediately."

Gawping at the command, the young man stuttered his reply, "Sir, visiting hours are not until 8."

Diana could feel before see the deliberative shift in Bruce's demeanor as he leaned toward the man only a fraction. The first command was in the voice of Bruce Wayne but what came next was decidely tinged with a menace only found in the Bat.

"Room number, doctor, _Now._ "

It was at that moment a disheveled man with the look of a beaurcratic adminsitrator burst through the entrance Bruce and Diana had arrived through.

"Mr. Wayne! My apologies, I received the call that you were arriving only an hour ago."

Stepping around to the attendant this new arrival anxiously spoke into his ear. "You will direct Mr. Wayne and," the man slid his attention to Diana with a brief shock, "his, uhm, Ms., ah, Wonder Wo-"

Diana only smiled lightly at the befuddled man. Unfamiliar with which honorific to use with a Princess/Ambassador/Superhero the poor man only nodded absently, "Jerry, I will escort our guests to Mr. Pennyworth's room and would you page Dr. Sterling to meet us there."

* * *

The hospital adminstrator, a Mr. Hortimer, had been roused from his bed by a call from the Director of the Board of St Thomas' informing him that Bruce Wayne was arriving in the hour at the hospital and he was to meet him and as the Director said, "Attend to all his requests, without question."

After a slapdash attempt at a shave and dressing and a somewhat reckless drive from his home, Mr. Hortimer found himself stumbling both verbally and physically down the fourth floor hall to the cardiac ward.

The patient, a Mr. Alfred Pennyworth, age 68, had been attempted the previous evening after suffering what was determined to be a non-ST-segment-elevation myocardial infarction. Mr. Hortimer apologized, again to Mr. Wayne that he was not the person to provided a more detailed explanation of Mr. Pennyworth's present condition but that his attending physcian, a Dr Sterling will provide answers to all his questions.

It was after the fifth time Mr Hortimer repeated this assurance then silenced that he, Bruce and Diana arrived at the cardiac ward room. Bruce hesitated for a moment at the doorway seeing into the room with its row of beds on the left wall. His eyes set upon the figure on the bed furtherest in by the window. While Alfred Pennyworth was not a large man, his lithe body had unquestionably held a reserve of strength. Since he was born, Bruce had only known that presence of Alfred but the man he saw now was something so different, so drained of what he knew, what he had trusted in for so long.

In a hushed tone Mr Hortimer spoke, "Of course Mr Pennyworth will be moved to a private suite immediately."

Without glancing to the man, Bruce commanded, "A private nursing staff and you will arrange for surgery credentials for Dr. Terrance Stout from Gotham Medical University. He will be arriving later today."

"Ah, well you see Mr Wayne, surgery credentials must be reviewed before issuing. Should Mr Pennyworth require surgery I assure you our cardiac-"

Bruce's sharp look cut him off. Again, Diana could see the emergence of the Bat under the guise of Bruce Wayne.

"Of course, Mr Wayne I will see to it immediately." With that trembling response, Mr Hortimer left Bruce and Diana.

Silently, Bruce entered the room with Diana following.

The privacy curtain at Alfred's bed was drawn only partially the way around so it wasn't until Bruce and Diana stepped to the bedside that they both noticed the woman, drowsily slumped in a chair at the foot of his bed. Startled awake, perhaps by the shadow caste over her as Bruce approached Alfred's bedside, the woman momentarily stared in confusion. Until finally she exhaled a soft sigh of relief.

"You're here. What a blessing. I could not think what to tell the doctors of Alfred's medical history."

She rose, arranging her dress that had become twisted as she dozed in the chair. Finally sorted she extended her hand to Bruce.

"Mr. Wayne, I am Celia Tarret. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, although I truly wish it was under different circumstances."

Bruce accepted the woman's hand. Fifty-ish, Celia Tarret was striking for a woman of any age. Strawberry blond hair with only slight hints of grey. She stood shorter than Bruce but looked that she was taller than Alfred by an inch or more. Taking in her features, Diana surmised that this woman was likely not a relative of Alfred's. She lacked the angular nose and her eyes were bright green, large and expressive.

"Mrs. Tarret thank you for contacting me. I've asked for Alfred's doctor to join us but what can you tell me about what happened and his condition?"

Taking her elbow, Bruce maneuvered the woman to the window as she spoke in a hushed tone, "We were coming back from the theatre on our way to a later dinner..."

Diana turned her attention from their conversation and stepped closer to Alfred's bed. Laying supine, Alfred looked so very different than from the last time she had seen him, which was, _Only last Sunday,_ she thought. Alfred had chauffeured she and Bruce to the gala in Gotham after preparing a lovely dinner for them. She had tried, several times to get him to call her Diana but for each his only response was a slight quirk of his eyebrow indicating a slight amusement and a firm wordless reply that if spoken aloud might have been, _That will simply not do._

There was no expression on Alfred's face now. A slackness that seemed so foreign on his features. Diana reached out and gently touched his hand, limp and cool. As a immortal Amazon princess from an island of immortal warriors she had not truly understood what is was to age until coming to Man's World. For the first time she saw elderly and ...children. The magnificent cycle of life that eluded the immortal princess.

Diana noticed Bruce and the woman returning to the bedside, having concluded their converstaion.

"Oh, and Mr. Wayne, it's Ms. Tarrett, not that it matters. But I would ask that you call me Celia."

"Thank you Ms Tar- Celia. For everything you have done for Alfred.

Diana made room for Bruce to take her place by Alfred and he too reached for the still hand. Bruce stood silent looking at the man who is, what? What descritption is there for a man such as Alfred and who he is to Bruce Wayne?

After a moment of watching Bruce, Celia Tarret looked at Diana and gestured to the door in invitation. Understanding her meaning Diana followed the woman from the room.

It was now nearly 6 AM in the morning and the hallways of St Thomas began to take on more activity.

Reaching the elevators, Celia turned to Diana, "We may find the commissary open at this hour. We could all use a good strong cup of tea I think."

"In Bruce's case I would suggest coffee and to be honest for myself as well." Diana replied. It was no effort to like this woman, this guardian angel of Alfred.

* * *

The seats and chairs of St Thomas' commissary were plastic and a bit worn. As they took a table close to windows which looked out upon a well enough kept garden courtyard, Celia Tarret made a slight groan of discomfort.

Diana regarded her. An honest (since she knew no other) look of concern on her face for the older woman who by facts had little sleep the past night. Celia noticing her look answered, "Oh the lengths I will go to for that man."

 _That man_ , Alfred, Diana thought. And who was this woman, this mystery woman that knew Alfred, knew of Bruce and of what more?

They sat in silence for a few moments. But not for want from Diana to ask a thousand questions swirling in her mind. Bruce may not have cared what it was Alfred did each year, on the same date, for decades but she itched with curiosity. As if knowing well the Amazon's desire Celia began.

"I should have known something was not right." A beginning. Celia paused to sip at her tea.

"I could see that it was taking great effort for him to keep up with our plans for the day but he insisted with forging on."

Another sip of tea and Celia looked out the window at the withered bushes in the courtyard.

"Maybe I just couldn't imagine him any different than when we first started this tradition? Twenty eight years on and to me...he is no different."

"Celia," Diana started, rather entreated to this woman who seemed to have answers to questions never asked before, "Bruce would never ask this because, well Alfred.."

Reaching over the table, Celia grasped Diana's hand, finishing for her, "He's important. I know. He is very important to all us."

Giving the other woman's hand a gentle squeeze, far less than what her meta-Human strength was capable of, Diana asked, "Why was Alfred here?"

Leaning back in her chair, the older woman took in a breath through her nose and replied, "To see his wife."


	3. Chapter 3

"Hoah there! Keep her steady."

Alfred heard his father's voice clearly from the direction of the paddock. He adjusted his rucksack once again, shifting its weight of books he would need to revise and a few clothes once again as he rounded the path to the stables and training yard of the Fenimore Estate. The 13 kilometer hike from the train station at first did not seem daunting but now Alfred questioned his decision to save the monies his father had sent to pay for a cab to the Fenimore Estate. In the past, Jarvis Pennyworth would greet his son at the station whenever he came home from public school on holiday or the summer breaks. Two weeks ago his father's letter and the funds for the cab arrived with the explanation that he would not be able to greet him home for the Easter holiday break in the usual manner. A new mare was arriving the same day and as was his way, Jarvis Pennyworth would oversee the animal into her new home.

Alfred and his father had arrived at the Fenimore Estate eight years ago. It was only two months after his mother Rosalie's death from breast cancer. Ten year old Alfred had pleaded with his father for them to remain in their house in Derbyshire. The explanation that his father's salary alone would not support the mortgage meant little to Alfred. His father's new position as head groomsman and trainer at the Fenimore Estate came with a small cottage on the grounds. The monies Jarvis was to save from his new position would allow him to fulfill a dying wish of his sweet Rosalie, to see Alfred enrolled in public school. A teacher herself, Rosalie was exceptionally proud of her son's intellect and intended that he receive the best education. So it was that Jarvis brought his son to Dorset. To the sprawling Fenimore Estate with it grand main house set overlooking over the stables and paddock that had been the training ground for champion racehorses for centuries and the tiny cottage suited for a widower and his young son. Brought also into Alfred's life that day, Catherine Fenimore, the nine year old granddaughter of Lady Fenimore. Ten year old Alfred could not name the feeling that came over him when he first saw her, running wildly down the slope from the grand house to greet he and his father as their hired van pulled onto the stable ground or how she dragged him from the van to show him the little pond further up the lane where they would catch frogs. He did not know why when she took his hand and started marching up the lane his body, which had felt so cold in the months since his mother's death suddenly warmed but at 18 he knew the feeling now and could name it, love.

* * *

Dinner at Fenimore Cottage was a quiet affair. Jarvis Pennyworth was a man of few words and his son had inherited this quality. That was not to say either Pennyworth men could not converse well with others, it simply was that between them there was need for little chatter. So when Jarvis laid his napkin on the table, leaned back in his chair and broke the silence, Alfred was unprepared and a bit wary.

"So you'll be sitting for your exams soon?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And you still planning on take your gap after?"

It was during his last visit home for the Christmas break that Alfred had taken up the subject with his father of a gap year. A tradition in taking the year after completing public school and entering university. They were in the stables on a chilled December afternoon, Alfred mucking out a stall as his father inspected the tack. This was the more comfortable environment for conversation between the father and son. Jarvis had not agreed with his son at the time about taking the coming year off once graduated, especially since his plan was not to travel or even volunteer out of country as was the more common pursuit but rather to remain at the Fenimore Estate helping his father.

Although Alfred was adamant that his intention was only to learn more of the care of horses and even suggested he would volunteer with the local veterinarian. What Alfred did not mention but what was well known to Jarvis was that a full year spent at Fenimore Estates would afford his son the opportunity to see Catherine Fenimore nearly every weekend. As Alfred, Catherine was enrolled in a public school for girls but was situated much closer to the family home. She came home to her grandmother's estate on the weekends.

"Well, if that is what you are intending then so be it. Just know you'll be expected to work. I'll not have you laying about."

Jarvis rose from his seat, taking his plate and glass to the sink and began to clean up from their dinner. Alfred followed and took up his usual duties, well orchestrated steps established by the father and son years ago.

"I spoke with vet Manning last week. He said he'd be happy to have you come work with him."

"Thank you Sir. I was hoping to see him this week to arrange things. If I can borrow the van to drive over to him?"

"He's expecting you tomorrow, 9 AM at his office."

"9 AM?" Alfred had not anticipated this. Catherine's train was in at 9:20 the next morning.

"I thought, that is, someone would need to pick up Ms. Catherine from the station?"

Since achieving his license the year before, Alfred had taken ever opportunity to see Catherine from the train station to home, with the occasional detour to give them a few hours together away from the prying ears and eyes of Fenimore.

"No need son." Jarvis replied, handing a washed plate for his son to dry and set back in the cupboard. "Her father will be getting her."

 _Her father?_ Alfred paused his hand mid-air. William Fenimore was an infrequent presence at the Fenimore Estate. He lived in London and rarely attend holidays at the Estate, even though it was he only time to see his child, Catherine. It was nearly four years ago that Master Fenimore stopped coming to the Estate.

It was a day and night Alfred would forever hold in his memory along with the memory of his last time with his mother. He and Catherine had spent the day together, home for the summer break from school. It was Catherine's 14 birthday that weekend. Her parents were driving from London and expected later that evening. They had gotten a ride into town with one of his father's men who was going in for supplies and errands. As a birthday gift, Alfred had used his meager allowance to buy Catherine ice cream and to take her to a matinee at the cinemas. It was in the darkened theatre that he had reached out and taken Catherine's hand and held it throughout the movie, not even caring what was on the screen. Just before the end, Catherine gave his hand a squeeze, drawing his attention away from the final screen, not that he knew at that point what the movie had been about. Turning to her, he watched in now wrapped attention as she leaned over to place a kiss on his lips. Then the lights of the theatre came on and all he could do was stare at her smiling face.

It was as they waited behind the store his father's man had arranged to meet them at that Alfred decided to match her boldness. As Catherine laughed about the absurdness of the movie they, apparently only she had watched with any attention, he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently placed his lips to hers. A few seconds longer than the kiss in the theatre, Alfred's 14 nearly 15 year-old mind began to swim with the possibilities of what may follow this kiss. It was then, a plaintive honk from the Estates' lorry broke them apart.

Returning to the Estate, Catherine went to the grand house to prepare for dinner and her parents arrival, expected at any time. Alfred watched as she went up the slope to the veranda and returned her wave when she turned just before entering. Beyond the roof top of the grand house, dark rain clouds gathered. Oblivious to this, Alfred stood, staring at the doorway she went through wondering what it would be like to kiss her at the pond they had caught frogs on his first day at Fenimore.

It was later, after dinner with his father, with the early summer storm rattling the windows of the old cottage, Alfred considered that taking Catherine out for a ride across the back fields would be a more appropriate than to the pond they had played at as children. For surely now they were no longer children. What Catherine and he did in the theatre and behind the feed store was not the actions of children. Yes, a ride across the valley, that was more…adult.

A ring from the phone broke his thoughts and plans. Answering it, his father listened to the caller first staring at this boots, then raising his head, eyes closed and a look that Alfred knew to be familiar but could not place. With a murmured reply, Jarvis hung up the phone.

"I've got to go to the house. Finish cleaning up, then straight to bed son."

"Da, what is it?"

Jarvis walked over to his son, placing one hand on his shoulder and another at the back of his neck. After a moment, he drew his son into a brief hug and then release him. Gently roughing his hair before doing so.

"We'll talk in the morning. Now finish and to bed."

Turning and taking his oiled slicker from the peg on the wall, his father departed without another word into the rainy night.

He had heard his father's return hours later, longer after the storm had moved on. He had not slept after finishing in the kitchen and taking a bath. He lay awake listening for distant sounds from the main house over the pulsing beat of raindrops from the eaves of the cottage. Nothing came, all through the night. Now, a shaft of light from under his bedroom door, his father's steps shuffling down the hall, past his bedroom and finally darkness again and the soft click of his father's bedroom door.

He could not tell how long he stayed awake, still listening, until finally his vigilance was rewarded. A soft scratch, from his bedroom window.

Rising, he crept carefully to the window and opened it. There was Catherine. In her night dress and robe, her slippers and hem of her clothes wet and muddy from the trek across the stable yard and path with led to the cottage.

Wordlessly, Alfred reached out and helped Catherine in through the window. Once in, she walked past him to the bed and sat, her head hung low and her damp golden hair fell over her face.

Kneeling before her, Alfred asked in a low whisper, "Catherine, what's happened?"

She looked at him. Her eyes were swollen and there was a new tear falling over her cheek.

"My mum. She's dead." More tears and a small whimper.

* * *

It was in the morning Jarvis found them. Another call from the main house only a few minutes ago implored him to come help search for Catherine. She was missing from her room. He had gone to awaken is son to tell him that they were needed.

And so he found them, a top the bed linens, Alfred cradling Catherine, an arm around her shoulder and her tear swollen face laying upon his chest.

Jarvis held his breath and could only mutter a soft but pained statement, "What trouble this will be."


	4. Chapter 4

Alfred had never known his father to tell a lie. So as he listened from the kitchen table with Catherine across from him, he nearly choked on his cereal as he heard his father tell Lady Fenimore that Catherine had stayed the night, in his room whilst Alfred slept on the parlor sofa.

"She came in when I was with you, Lady Catherine. Alfred thought he was doing right by putting her to bed and was waiting up to tell me, but he fell asleep. I dinna' notice him there until this morning, just after you called."

"Well Mr Pennyworth, so long as Catherine was safe, I cannot fault Alfred or you."

Seeing Lady Fenimore enter the modest cottage kitchen gave Alfred a chill. For the years he and his father had lived there, the grand Lady had never so much as walked to the stables, let alone to he and his father's abode.

Catherine sat opposite him, clutching a mug of hot chocolate, staring at the now congealed bowl of cereal he had made for her.

Lady Fenimore came to her granddaughter's side and set a hand at her back, then gently kissed the top of her head.

"Catherine, my darling, you gave us such a fright, especially..." The Lady's voice faltered, "We, your father especially were terribly worried for you."

For the first time since her grandmother entered the room, Catherine moved, a sniff and shudder, then a wave of anguish overtook Catherine's person. She turned to her grandmother's figure and wrapped her arms around her, a torrent of tears coming from her, far stronger than the previous night's storm.

Alfred felt his father's strong hand at his shoulder, a tight squeeze that drew him from his chair. Alfred rose and lead his father from the kitchen. Directing him to the front door, Jarvis Pennyworth took his son out of the cottage into the front yard.

Alfred stood, not facing his father, even after he dropped his hand from his shoulder and walk further into the lane, away from the cottage.

"Son." he heard him beckon and Alfred compiled, walking to where his father stood.

He knew his father stood, looking down on him, only imagining the look on his face.

"Tell me."

Alfred stole a look at the door of the cottage.

"She came after you went to bed. I was awake and heard a noise." Alfred hesitated, try to remember exactly what happened the night before.

"I helped her through the window, she was wet and cold. She said her Mum was dead and started crying. I didn't," Alfred looked into his father's face for the first time, " I didn't know what to do, so I just let her cry. That's all Da, I swear. She cried and I just-"

"All right son."

Alfred could feel it now. The realization. Catherine, wonderful, lively, happy Catherine was now forever to be like him. He could feel and remember it all now. His father and aunt coming into the room where they put family members before a wake started. His aunt, taking him in a strong embrace, whispering how he was a strong, good lad and his mother would be so proud of him. His father, standing with a hand outstretch telling him it was time. He hadn't want it to be time and time for what? What was he suppose to do? He listened, listened to the minister talk about God and his keeping. He listened him talk about his Mum, how she was a child of God and now with him. Alfred remember wanting to yell at the minister. Tell him that she was his Mum. She should be with him, not God.

The same firm hand that held his that day, now firmly held his arm.

"Why her? Why-" Alfred wanted to finish _Why Catherine_ because it was Catherine who he grieved for, as he had himself. He cried into the woolen shirt of his father. Cried for Catherine, for what she would now know. God takes Mums away. God takes away your home, your friends, everything you thought was yours to keep. God takes it all.


End file.
